Location: Fenwick District — En Route to the Vice — Late Afternoon
The van was a relic from another decade.
White paint peeling in strips, revealing patches of rust the color of dried blood. Its windows were tinted, but the film had bubbled and cracked, leaving distorted views of the city outside. The engine coughed when it started and coughed again at every stoplight, as if reminding its passengers that it had been scheduled for retirement before any of them were born.
Elijah sat in the back.
His body—Diego's body—was pressed against the metal wall, his knees brushing against the seat in front of him. The fabric was torn, stained, stuffed with foam that had long since lost its spring. Beside him sat a young man whose name he had learned ten minutes ago.
Ramon.
Nineteen, maybe twenty. His face was soft, unmarked by the kind of violence that had carved lines into Ba's cheeks and hardened Mariela's eyes. His hands were clasped in his lap. His thumbs were rubbing against each other. His knee bounced—up, down, up, down—a nervous rhythm that had been going for the entire drive.
Across from them, Lucia.
Her legs were crossed. Her arms were folded. Her expression was the face of someone who had seen this before and was already bored.
In the front seat, Mateo drove.
His hands were on the wheel at ten and two. His eyes moved from the road to the rearview mirror to the road again. His jaw was set. His shoulders were tense.
"You know," Mateo said, "back home, I survived things that would make your hair turn white."
His voice was low, almost conversational.
"The cartels. The cops. The government. All of them eating at the same table, and the people—the normal folks—we're just the plates they fight over."
He glanced at the rearview mirror.
"Even if you play safe, even if you keep your head down, eventually they swallow you. That's just how it is."
"So why stay?" Lucia asked.
"Where would I go? The border patrol agency doesn't do anything unless it's a high-profile case. Some rich tourist gets kidnapped, they send helicopters. But us? We cross the desert, we pay coyotes, we end up in a warehouse with fifty other people, and no one cares."
He shook his head.
"The Tinkuana cartel—Phillipo's people—they're not saints. But at least they protect their own. You earn loyalty, you get protection. You get bread on the table. You get a chance to send money back to your mother."
"That's a low bar," Lucia said.
"It's the only bar we have."
Mateo's hands tightened on the wheel.
"The real threat was never the cartels. It was the government itself. Corruption so deep it's like a black hole. They were draining the country dry, and if it weren't for Santiago Fuentes—the revolution he started, the way he kicked the hornet's nest—everyone would have fallen into obscurity. Forgotten. At the mercy of people who see us as less than human."
He paused.
"Even Santiago—in his prime, wealthy, powerful, untouchable—he was still a puppet. A shadow organization eventually took him out. The same one that holds the leash on all of us."
"The Mysterium clan," Lucia said.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Mateo was quiet for a moment.
Then he sighed.
"We're all puppets. Playing at someone else's tune. The only difference is how long we get to dance before the strings are cut."
---
Ramon's knee was still bouncing.
His hands were still clasped. His thumbs were still rubbing.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
His voice was high. Tight.
"What exactly are we about to—"
"If you're not careful," Lucia said, "you might not even know how you died."
Ramon's face went pale.
"That's not funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
Mateo's eyes found the rearview mirror.
"Lucia. Stop. You're scaring him more than he already is."
"He should be scared."
"He's a kid."
"We're all kids. The world doesn't care."
Ramon's knee bounced faster.
---
Elijah watched.
Not with his eyes—with something deeper.
Kokoro drifted through the van like smoke. It rose from Ramon—from his fear, his uncertainty, his desperate hope that the next few minutes would not be his last. It curled around Lucia, around Mateo, around the metal walls and the cracked windows.
Shinsei pulled it toward him.
The sacred breath. The current that carried Kokoro into his flesh.
He didn't need to inhale. He didn't need to focus. He just was.
And the fear came.
It tasted like copper. It smelled like sweat. It felt like the cold pressure of a hand on the back of his neck, guiding him toward something he couldn't see.
This is what they feel, he thought. This is what they carry every day.
The fear of being caught. The fear of being killed. The fear of being forgotten.
And it's all energy.
Kokoro doesn't care about good or bad. It only cares that it exists.
He closed his eyes.
The fear flowed into him.
His muscles loosened. His spine straightened. The impurities that had clung to him since the Freakshow, since the Morrecca, since the long nights of dishwashing and fake smiles—they were being pushed out.
Tenryu stirred.
The vessel. The core.
One unit of Tenryu was worth a hundred units of aetherflux conflux.
And right now, surrounded by the fear of three desperate people, he was drinking from a river.
---
Wonko's voice pressed against his skull.
"Are you just going to waste time with these childish antics? You could be training the Astraseal. Focusing on the Mandate. Preparing for—"
"I am preparing," Elijah thought.
"By sitting in a van? By playing dishwasher? By pretending to be someone else?"
"By being in the world. By learning how it works. By understanding the people who move through it."
"That's not training. That's—"
"Worrying too much about matters that aren't your concern will cause you to miss the moments that matter."
Wonko was silent.
"Just sit back," Elijah thought. "Enjoy the ride."
"Enjoy the ride," Wonko repeated.
His mental voice was flat.
"You've gone mad."
"Maybe."
Elijah opened his eyes.
"But at least I'm having fun."
---
The van turned onto a side street.
The buildings here were older—not the crumbling ruins of the industrial district, but the faded grandeur of a neighborhood that had once been prosperous. Brick facades. Fire escapes. Windows covered in bars.
Music drifted from somewhere ahead.
Not a recording—live. A guitar, a trumpet, the slap of hands on congas. The sound was warm, almost inviting, the kind of music that made you want to dance even if you didn't know how.
The van stopped.
Mateo killed the engine.
"This is it."
Ramon's knee stopped bouncing.
His face was pale. His eyes were wide.
"I can't—"
"You can," Mateo said. "And you will."
He opened the door.
The music grew louder.
---
The courtyard was packed.
Young men and women in bright clothes crowded around plastic tables, red cups in their hands, smoke drifting from their lips. A grill sizzled at the center of the space, its surface covered in meat and onions and peppers. A group of girls danced near the speakers, their hips moving in time with the beat.
"Take me to the river," someone sang.
"Take me to the water."
"Wash away my sins, wash away my sorrows."
The lyrics were familiar, but wrong. Changed. Adapted.
"Take me to the fire, let me burn it all away."
A young man stood at the grill.
He was handsome—sharp jaw, dark eyes, a smile that had never been told no. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a chest that had been sculpted by hours in a gym. His hair was perfect, even in the heat.
Kevin.
The college kid. The one who had been distributing Haze to his classmates. The one who thought he was untouchable.
Two other young men stood beside him.
One was tall, thin, his arms covered in tattoos. The other was shorter, stockier, his face hidden behind a beard that had been trimmed into sharp lines.
Kevin's buddies. The ones who used to work for the Morreccas. The ones who had convinced him to cut out the middleman.
They think they're clever, Elijah thought. They think no one will notice.
But the Ferrano notice everything.
---
Mateo reached into his jacket.
His hand emerged holding a pistol—black, compact, the kind of weapon that could be concealed in a pocket and deployed in a second.
Ramon's eyes went wide.
"What are you—"
"This," Mateo said, "is the solution to our problem."
He pointed the pistol toward the courtyard.
Toward Kevin.
Toward the music, the dancing, the smoke.
"You two," he said.
His eyes moved from Ramon to Elijah.
"I would like you to go over there and delete the problem."
Ramon's face was the color of paper.
"I can't—I've never—"
"There's a first time for everything."
Mateo's expression didn't change.
"Don't worry. If you fail, we'll be right here. Watching. Ready to finish the job."
He smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
"So. What's it going to be?"
---